“He was there in a corner, gazing out of the window. When I came he sprang up, but when he saw who it was, he—he tried to hide. He was afraid of me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“He said that I—I reminded him of you.”
“Absurd!” she murmured. “Tell me, how did he look?”
“Ill, wretched, paler and thinner than ever, and wilder looking.”
“What did Mathers say about him?” she demanded.
“What could he? He told me that he cried all day and begged to be taken back to America.”
“No one goes near the place, I suppose?” she asked.
“Not a soul. A man comes from the village to sell things once a week. Mathers knows when to expect him and takes care that Wenham is not around. They are out of the world there—no road, no paths, nothing to bring even a tourist. I could have imagined such a spot in Arizona, Elizabeth, but in England—no!”
“Has he any amusements at all?” she inquired.